One Who Wants
by Fire-In-The-Heart
Summary: To...the one who would care the most. This lonely silence is killing me. The ink scribbled off in a messy thrust as he wrote the truth; something that he had been steadily denying. He was dying. As surely as if Voldemort was casting Aveda Kedavra.
1. Silence Is Golden

_Whoever said 'silence is golden' was full of crap._

 ** _OOO_**

 _13 Days. 311 Hours. hours, 18660 minutes, 1119600 seconds_ _and..._

Harry scrawled across the numbers with his pen, scratching them into oblivion, then pursing his lips, began to draw an immensely complicated lop-eared rabbit.

Wearing McGonagall's hat, Trawlney glasses and Snape's sneer.

This was soon discarded as Harry chucked the broken pen across the room, reaching up to draw shaky, ink covered fingers through his already messy, sweat stained hair. Leaning forward, Harry cradled his head in his hands, and began to speak.

 _"_ _Parkers Root. Healing Properties when chopped. Poison when sliced."_

His foot began to jiggle in place, his fingers digging into the carpet by his thigh's, threading through the loops of material.

 _"Valerian. Orange is good, purple is bad...unless one wants incurable blindness as an outcome."_

Leaning back, head thumping solidly against the wall, Harry moved one hand down to cover his eyes.

 _"_ _Red Ochre. Left to boil, administer immediately...fresh; dry before use."_

He thumped his head back again. Just to hear the noise.

 _"_ _Mandrix formula. Ingested will...will...ingested will..."_

Harry began to laugh, a mirthless, bitter, slightly crazed cackle, which soon devolved into a distraught sob.

 _"_ _Idiot!...I-Idiot...stupid, stupid...s-so stupid!"_

His fisted hand thumped down on his thigh with a resounding 'thud' and Harry hissed through his teeth, knowing that the bruise forming would soon match the others around it in a stormy hue of blue or black.

 _"_ _Ingested will cause infertility! Absorbed; an aid for...bruises!"_

The mirthless chuckle returned, chokingly through the broken sobs, the fact that he was gasping for air not seeming to faze the boy.

 _"_ _Shit. Damn, crap...F-fuck!"_

Harry slumped over onto his side, curling into a tiny ball, arms tucked into his overly large shirt. Tears continuing to seep unchecked below closed lids, hands covering his ears, a low pained moan drawn from pressed lips, a hiccup accompanied the newest torrent of liquid pearls.

 _OOO_

It had only been Vernon at the train station picking him up.

One ham fisted paw had clamped onto his shoulder in a bruising vice-like grip, and Harry hadn't been able to help the wince.

He'd had rushed a wistful goodbye as his Uncle had dragged him away. He'd smiled though, to allay Hermione's concern, and a small shake of his head had mellowed Ron's anger to resentment.

Vernon had been silent in the car. Harry had been grateful.

The vice like grip had returned once they pulled into the driveway, and Harry had meekly allowed himself to be tugged into the house and up the stairs- best not to rock the boat so early.

Then Vernon had propelled him bodily into Dudley's second bedroom and Harry heard the door slam and the bolts slide home.

He was thrown into memories of his summer before second year; the cat flap and the bars on the window.

He spun to protest- _they'd been warned!_

 _Only the door was closed, and there was no cat flap._

He turned slowly.

 _No-cat flap._

 _No bed. No drawers. No desk. No shelves. No bars. No window-_

Just a bare room with a boarded over window.

Harry had shouted himself hoarse that afternoon.

 _No one had come._

* * *

Left alone, locked inside Dudley's old soundproofed bedroom, silence, silence and silence.

He was steadily going insane.

The first day, after Vernon had slammed the door closed and slid the bolts home, Harry had shouted, demanded and threatened. When no one came, he'd sighed and turned to slump against the far wall, sliding to the wooden floor. They'd come tomorrow, for now he could sleep.

The second day, he shouted. He'd pounded on the door with his fists, thrown himself bodily against the barrier. ANd he'd relaised that they weren't coming. to no avail. The door remained closed and no one had come.

Harry marked the passing of days by the muted glow that seeped through the cracks and edging of the boarded-up window- but lost track of the numbers, only aware of the turn from pitch black to dull grey.

x

OOO

He was half asleep. Just on the cusp of sinking further when the clock beside his bed chirped.

00:01am

He was 16 years old.

It almost broke him.

Tears were already welling, Harry unable to suppress the misery he felt, the emotions rife, seeking the surface.

16 and alone. Silent.

His hands slapped against his thighs again, hard, as hard as Harry could hit, and he revelled in the sound...noise...any noise was a distraction.

And then the small brown owl popped into existence in front of him.

If Harry hadn't known better he would have thought it apparated.

His hands stilled against his thighs, his eyes widened in unexpected ecstasy...company!

He stared at the bird, it stared back. Then it stuck out its leg and Harry noticed the scroll.

Shakily he untied it, one hand never leaving the first warm; breathing body he had felt in months, as he unravelling it to read.

 _Mr Harry J. Potter_

 _It is with great pleasure that I wish you a joyful 16_ _th_ _birthday, and many happy returns._

 _As is customary in the Wizarding World, I hereby grant the 7 following rights to you:_

 _1._ _Engage in sexual practises_

 _2._ _Marry or Join_

 _3._ _Father Children_

 _4._ _Vote_

 _5._ _Drink Alcoholic Beverages_

 _6._ _Smoke_

 _7._ _Apply for licences of extra-interest, i.e.- creature breeding_

 _I am not able to grant you freedom of use of magic, nor has the magical signature tracker on your wand been removed, despite your being of age, as your magical guardian, Albus Dumbledore, not allowed it._

 _Please accept my fondest wishes, on behalf of the Ministry._

 _Simion Haldescion_

 _Head of Magical Rights_

The owl disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving the scroll in his hands, and a look of absolute distraught betrayal on his face.

His face paled, eyes glimmered and then he burst into noisy, heartbroken, body wracking tears, throwing himself face down on the bed.

OOO

 _He didn't notice that the owl wasn't all that disappeared._

 _A certain letter, with two scrawled lines of desperate truth, was also gone._

Scrabbling for the tattered remains of the broken quill he'd dug out from beneath his floorboards over a week ago, Harry scrawled across the bottom of the torn page fragment from one of Dudley's primary school paperback's that had somehow been missed when the room had been cleaned.

 ** _To...the one who would care the most._**

 ** _This lonely silence is killing me._**

The ink scribbled off in a messy thrust as he wrote the truth; something that he had been steadily denying.

He was dying.

As surely as if Voldemort was casting Aveda Kedavra.


	2. The Loudest Voice

_There are times when Silence has the loudest voice._

 ** _OOO_**

Draco flopped on his bed, although he would have denied the flopping. Stretching languidly, he shook the hair from his eyes, and sighed, linking his hands behind his head, staring peacefully up at the swirling colours that made up his enchanted ceiling.

Summer.

His 16th summer.

And the first he had been allowed to use magic; unrestricted by the ministry, Hogwarts or his father.

And he was bored senseless. His homework was done, 16th birthday celebration come and gone, gifts losing the lustre of newness.

Draco Malfoy was bored.

He deliberately kept himself from looking at his writing desk, fighting the allure of the mysterious. A scrap of parchment that had arrived yesterday sat in the centre of his desk; alone in its off-whiteness, softly stained, by what Draco's revelation spell determined, was h2o and sodium.

Tears.

The heavy scribble on the back and the bunny sketch were also illuminating.

The hat, glasses and sneer easily recognisable; identifying the artist as a possible Hogwarts student, current or past.

The writer had never intended another to see this letter, never mind the almost desperate plea it contained.

 _Draco was, quite simply, fascinated by it...and not at all bored._

Rolling his eyes as he gave into the inevitable, Draco flicked his wand at the slip of parchment.

 _"_ _Accio!"_

Catching it in one out stretched hand, he was careful not to crumple the paper as he held it aloft, letting the glow from the sunlit roof stream through it, lighting the simple, sad plea.

 ** _This lonely silence is killing me..._**

If there had been more to the letter, perhaps that one line would not have effected Draco the way it did. Whatever the case, the line rang within him, stirring something, some emotion he did not recognise. He convinced himself that he could feel the pain of the writer, empathise...wanted to soothe them...yet despite knowing that he could not possibly feel something that strongly from one line...he did.

 ** _To...the one who would care the most..._**

The addressee...sent, not to a specific person...but someone with the potential to be a specific person.

It was farfetched, but then again...it was magic... And Draco decided that if this person was one he would care about above any other...he wouldn't let even the hint of that chance slip by.

Sitting up, he moved with single minded purpose to the desk and sat, pulling parchment and a quill to himself as he did so.

 ** _To...The one whom I may care about..._**

 ** _Relieve the silence, and be lonely with me..._**

He gave the letter to Syndar before he could change his mind, watching as the black falcon swooped out the window...delivering a letter to someone that Draco did not know...that magic said he would like to.


	3. Silence Screams

_Those who believe that there is nothing worse than the screams of a love one have obviously never heard the sudden silence._

 ** _OOO_**

Harry gargled water from the tap hastily, not wanting Vernon to catch him, but taking as long as he dared, knowing that immediately after he was done in the bathroom, he would be locked back in the bedroom.

For an instant he contemplated the dull glint of the razor in the wire holder. Only for an instant. And only so he would hear his uncle's angry bellows and his aunts screeching about 'blood on the tiles!'

The instant passed and he followed uncle back to the heavily bolted door that led to his own private hell of the past two months. The tumblers fell behind him, and Harry braced himself against the door, pressing close, hoping to hear...something. Anything.

A grumble as Vernon went down the stairs, a swear word, _anything._ But as always, the soundproof rooms kept any noise out, as well as it had kept the noise from Dudley's games in.

Already he could feel his eyes watering, and angrily punched at the wall, defiant against even his own perceived weakness.

Alone, alone...always alone. And silent.

Refusing to let the tears come, Harry sat on his bed, reaching for the book on his bedside table.

It was an old muggle paperback, probably once belonging to Dudley and abandoned when Dudley moved anything he wanted to keep out of the room that was to be Harry's.

A fascinating story; murder, mystery, mayhem...and not nearly as captivating the 18th time.

Angrily he flung the book at the other side of the room, watching stunned as it smashed into the wall and dropped to the floor, spine busted and pages mangled.

Another recent development, it seemed, was that he had trouble controlling his temper, losing it in wild bursts of unpredictable, unnecessary anger.

Green eyes luminescent in the approaching darkness, face pale, Harry stared at the book, which had been whole not 20 seconds ago.

Then the tears came, and he crumpled to the floor, fingernails biting into the opposite arm punishingly as short bitter sobs filled the air.

 _What was happening to him?_

Nails drew blood before he eased off, the pain welcome relief from the silence, overwhelming it in its capacity to engulf.

Laying back on the floor, eyes as empty of happiness as the atmosphere itself, Harry started to croon an old poem, the memory of its origin not one he could recall.

 _Gilded though it be... a cage is still a cage._

 _A wish lost to dreaming, and a dream lost to rage..._

 _Hope holds fragile as a feaye's lace wing_

 _Through a crown of tears that I cannot see_

 _The disciples of loneliness, despite I am king_

 _The future shrouded; I the lost key._

The silence he could fill, although it was still hollow. The loneliness however...

He would have been happy to see even Snape at this interval.

 _Or Sirius..._

Getting to his feet, he started to whistle. Another odd, useless habit he had picked up, the sound comforting in the quiet that was his day.

And then something whistled back.

Harry spun from the mirror where he had been gazing, to the window, which was still as solidly boarded up as ever.

Which didn't explain how the huge black bird perched on the jutting windowsill.

For an instant Harry thought _Voldemort,_ and then decided that he _truly did not care._

He lunged to the window, smiling through the half blinding tears, fingers sinking deep into soft midnight plumage.

The bird eyed him, letting loose a soft, reproachful hiss, and Harry, numbly, eased his grip, just a little. The bird turned the baleful yellow eye back to him, and then dropped its head, gently rubbing the side of its face along Harry's wrist, _caressing him...returning his touch!_

After several minutes, Harry tears cleared enough for him to see the small slip of paper attached to it's... _his,_ leg, and dutifully released the owl from its burden. Harry stared at the letter in one hand and the bird in the other, unable to get his mind to _think..._ a gentle nip to the wrist and Harry let the falcon go, watching longingly as it shuffled backwards a little.

Harry's soft keen of desperation eased as the bird landed in a nearby tree, eyes obviously watching, waiting for Harry to behave normally and read the letter.

Harry obeyed, reluctantly dragging his eyes from the magnificent bird.

 ** _To...The one whom I may care about..._**

 ** _Relieve the silence, and be lonely with me..._**

The piece of paper slipped from lax fingers and floated harmlessly to the floor, Harry's stunned gaze swivelled to his desk, where, sure enough, the scrawled note from a few days ago was gone.

It took harry a few minutes to come up with the only viable answer.

 _The ministry owl..._

Re-reading the letter, Harry was exalting, heart singing and mind shouting. _At the same time, he was also bloody terrified._

Should he, _could_ he put this person in danger? _should he let this person see the truth; the scars and wounds that lay on his twisted, torn soul?_

The words caught him again...

 ** _'One whom I may care about... be lonely with me.'_**

And Harry was already replying, wiping tears that wouldn't be stifled.

The chance for someone who may care, may care for 'Just Harry'.

His quill touched paper and his reply was written.

He watched with hooded eyes as the bird flew away...


End file.
